


The Deep Blue Sea

by tambrathegreat



Series: Michonne and Daryl Stories [1]
Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 08:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tambrathegreat/pseuds/tambrathegreat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl ponders the loss of Merle.  Michonne gives him something to remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deep Blue Sea

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own The Walking Dead, nor any characters or settings. I make no money from this endeavor

Merle was the one who had traveled. Daryl had stayed behind. He’d been the younger of the two and Pa’s favorite… punching bag. Naw, Merle had been places. He’d seen the world before it all went to hell. Daryl hadn’t.

Oh, once the old man kicked it, Daryl had made it to Mobile and a few other places, but he couldn’t claim to be a world traveler like Merle had been. Merle had been to Mexico doing a run for the Outlaws. He’d been other places too, places that Daryl had known to stay away from.

Daryl waited for the knife in the gut grief to overtake him like it always did when he thought of his brother since… that day.

He’d put his own brother down like a rabid dog. Then he’d come back to the prison he now called home, half out of his mind, silent, and sullen. If it had been like old times, before this plague or God’s judgment, or whatever the hell it was, had hit, he’d have taken his anger, fear, and grief out on the willing body of one of the town girls, and then drowned what wasn’t taken care of in some ‘shine. 

Of course, if it had been before times, he’d never have had to kill what was left of Merle. They’d both have been doing something illegal, maybe got some hard time for it, but they’d have had a helluva time doing it. 

Merle wasn’t no good at staying straight, that was for sure. Of course, neither was Daryl. They were brothers after all, and they’d been all that each other’d had since before the old man died.

Suddenly, he was mightily tired of it all. 

He looked at the old six-shooter he held in his hands, the chrome gleaming in the half-light in the old guard tower that he’d chosen as his brooding spot. A tear splashed onto his hand as he looked at the gun.

All it would take is one shot to the brain and he’d be dead. Dead for real, not any of that walker shit for him. If Daryl was going to do it, he’d do it right. He didn’t want someone else to have to clean up his mess. It wasn’t his way.

He tested the weight of the gun in his hand, imagined the way the bullet would feel tearing through his flesh and bone. All he would need would be one bullet and it’d be over… for him at least.

He hefted it up to his head and closed his eyes…

And suddenly he thought of the one thing that he had never seen, the one thing that had made him continue through years of abuse at the old man’s hands, the loss of Merle to first juvie and later, the Outlaws. 

He’d always wanted to go to the sea, to watch the waves lap at the shore, to contemplate its vastness. He’d always wanted to pick up shells on the sand, to bring them to some, as yet, faceless woman, a good woman who smiled and didn’t drink, smoke, or leave her kids at the mercy of… well, him he guessed. She would be a woman who would see past him being a poor cracker. 

He would bring her shells and strings of sea weed and she’d laugh and accept them like they were treasures and he’d be… happy, he supposed. 

Of course, when he mentioned the sea to Merle that one time on the way to Atlanta, he’d got a lot of shit over it. Merle’d said, with that half-cocked grin of his, “You turnin’ soft on me, little brother?”

He held the gun to his temple for just a second longer-- knowing that if he were serious, he’d have the barrel in his mouth, that was the way to make sure he’d die-- until he heard the unmistakable clatter of boots on the stairs leading to his perch. It was back in his lap when the black bitch that had got Merle killed opened the door to the tower.

“What d’you want?” His voice sounded dull to his ears. He hoped it wasn’t obvious he’d been crying.

She didn’t answer. He supposed it was her way of being a bad-ass, not answering when a man asked her a reasonable question. 

“Well?” he asked again. “I ain’t gonna beg. Either tell me what you want or leave.”

She moved towards him, her steps surprisingly quiet in the room, considering how much noise she made coming up the stairs. She pulled off the sword that was always on her back, and sat down near enough he could smell the sweet-smelling, greasy shit she put in her hair and the soap from her shower that morning. She put the sword down between them. She drew something out of her pocket and fiddled with it.

Daryl fought the urge to fidget, suddenly reminded of the few times he had been dumb enough to draw the attention of a teacher and was sent to Old Lady Johnson, the counselor at his high school. She’d been as black as Michonne and smelled like an old lady. She’d always been fair to him though, one of the few in the town that had. She’d been one of the reasons that Daryl hadn’t followed Merle’s footsteps into juvie. 

She’d also been the reason that he’d got beat near half to death. Damned old pushy biddy had grabbed him by his t-shirt, had seen the scars on his shoulders. There’d been hell to pay once the government people had left after talking to the old man. 

But she’d cared enough to try for him, one of the only ones in that town who had, really. Everybody else just saw a cracker with bad blood. 

“He told me to give you this.” She didn’t need to say who. She held out her hand, the object in it gleaming white against her dark pink palms. “He said you’d know why.”

Daryl lifted it up, a small, white, seashell that had pink inside it when he turned it over. 

She rose, pulling up her sword as she did, putting it in the scabbard on her back in one swift, graceful motion. “For what it’s worth, I think he meant to come back.”

“Yeah.”

As he met her eyes, she nodded. “Rick says he needs to see you.”

She left, closing the door behind her.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for a challenge on The Maple Bookshelf. The prompt was: The Sea. A bonus issued for using an unexpected person who appears.
> 
> This story is un-beta'ed, though Lady Zombie did make some suggestions.
> 
> Please take the time to let me know what you think.


End file.
